


Welcome to the Jungle

by breakdancingsigma (SirFunkalo)



Series: Jumanji: Red vs. Blue [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jumanji Fusion, Body Swap, Humor, M/M, Not strictly an AU? But still kinda an AU?, The Reds and Blues play Jumanji, Video Game Mechanics, my apologies to Jack Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24412117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirFunkalo/pseuds/breakdancingsigma
Summary: In retrospect, playing a centuries-old video game found on an alien planet, on a centuries-old busted console that was either alien or super obscure, was probably not the smartest thing in the world. Especially since Donut had apparently heard really loud drums in his head when he found it. But, hey, prior experience had told Grif that when there was a choice between playing video games and doing actual work, video games always came first. So, sure, he'd give this Jumanji a try. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Series: Jumanji: Red vs. Blue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762915
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Welcome to the Jungle

In retrospect, playing a centuries-old video game found on an alien planet, on a centuries-old busted console that was either alien or super obscure, was probably not the smartest thing in the world. Especially since Donut had apparently heard really loud drums in his head when he found it. But prior experience had told Grif that when there was a choice between playing video games and doing actual work, video games always came first. So, yeah, he’d agreed to play this _Jumanji_ game with Donut, because they hadn’t had a new game in ages and even having to sit through more of Donut’s entendres wasn’t bad enough to scare him away. Plus he’d been able to convince Simmons to play. And Tucker had come by to complain about Wash’s training routine and whatever dumb thing Caboose had done recently, and there were four working controllers so of course he’d joined in.

Everything had been going well until Sarge came in, found them about to play a video game with a Blue, and snatched the controller out of Donut’s hand. His intention was probably to grab all of them and shout for a bit, but he must have pressed a button, because the game started. There had been a loud drumbeat coming from all directions, a weird green light, and then Grif’s body had started disintegrating in a stream of particles towards the screen.

Then he was falling from the sky, crashing through leafy branches, and landing with a _boom_ on his feet, hands braced on his knees, bones not smashed to jelly like they absolutely should have been after dropping from that insane height.

The next thing Grif noticed, after the lack of excruciating physical pain, was that he was standing in a jungle. There was a river to his right, dense foliage in every other direction, the murmur of insects and birds and the rustling of leaves. And the ground looked farther away, for some reason. Like he was...taller.

_What the fuck?_

When he looked down, he didn’t see his body. Every ounce of fat had been replaced with rippling muscle—hell, each of his biceps was the size of his neck, so big that he couldn’t push up the short sleeve of his safari shirt to get a better look at the tribal tattoos running from his left bicep to his enormous pec. When he turned his left wrist upward, three thick black lines were clearly inked there, but when he turned it back down, they vanished. A quick pat revealed that he was utterly bald.

“What the fuck—” His voice was deeper, too, but what shut him up was the distant, approaching sound of screaming. A moment later, a man crashed through the trees and hit the earth ass-first, unbalanced by a backpack about half his diminutive size.

“Fuck!” The man said, struggling to his feet. He stopped, looking at his hands in wonder, looking at the ground, turning in little half-circles as he patted down his body. “What the—what am I wearing? Why am I so short? Where’s all my hair?” He met Grif’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Grif,” said Grif. “Who—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, wait,” said the man. “Dexter Grif?”

“Yeah?”

“Bullshit. Grif isn't...” The man gestured to all of Grif. His hand went back to his head, as if to scratch it, but pulled up short at the hat. “Seriously, what’s with these clothes? I can’t pick up chicks in this outfit!”

“Wait…Tucker?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I'm telling you, I'm Grif! The orange guy!” 

"Okay, but if you're Grif, why do you look like that?"

That was a question Grif had been asking himself, but it wasn't until he heard someone else voice it that the scraps of thoughts floating around in his head finally solidified into an answer. It wasn't an answer he liked. “Tucker, _think!_ Which character did you choose?”

“Uh, Mouse Finbar, cuz you assholes took all the good characters.”

"Exactly. We're in our avatars. Tucker, we're _in the game!"_

Tucker stared at Grif for a long time. Finally, he shook his head. "No. No way. You’ve been watching too much anime. This is probably some weird alien VR stuff--”

He was cut off by yet more distant screaming. It wasn't long before two more people came plummeting from the sky. One of them, a rotund little man with glasses and a pith helmet, rolled around groaning. The other, a woman in tiny shorts and a red crop-top, did a perfect superhero landing. She tossed her head back, flipping her long red hair out of her face with a sexy confidence that had Grif whispering, “ _D_ _amn_.” Tucker whistled low in agreement.

The woman’s eyes went wide. She held up her hands, inspecting the slender fingers with mounting distress. She grabbed a lock of hair and held it in front of her face, muttering, “What the…” Then she looked down and went pale. Her hands went to her boobs, then just as quickly she let go as if she’d touched a hot stove. “Oh my god, oh my god, this can't be happening…”

“Okay, so let’s say I believe your theory,” Tucker said to Grif, “that means Donut is—"

“What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here?” said the chubby bespectacled man, who was clumsily maneuvering to his feet. “Why am I shaped like Grif and dressed like Jane Goodall? What have I done to deserve such cruel punishment?”

“No, that’s Sarge,” said Grif. “He took Donut’s controller, so the game must have sucked him in instead. So that means…”

As one, Grif and Tucker turned to look at the hot redhead. She immediately crossed her arms over her chest and hunched into herself. At the same moment, Sarge noticed her standing there. “Well hello, li’l lady. What’s a sweetheart like yerself doin’ in this here jungle?”

“My eyes are up here, asshole!” the woman snapped, donning a look of total embarrassment and blooming rage that was all too familiar.

“Simmons?” asked Grif. All the anger drained from the woman’s face and was replaced by abject horror, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“No way,” said Tucker. “No fucking way. We finally meet a hot girl, and she’s Simmons! That is just my luck.”

“I…what’s going on?” Her—his?—eyes scanned the clearing, taking in the situation faster than anyone else had. It was weird how Grif could see that about Simmons, even in a stranger's face. “Ok, so that’s Sarge, and that’s Tucker, so…” His eyes landed on Grif and went wide. “ _Grif?!”_

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” said Grif, crossing his arms (and becoming momentarily distracted by the way his biceps flexed— _Jesus,_ that was insane).

“What are you talkin’ about?” asked Sarge. His gruff, angry barking sounded comical coming from such a pleasant-looking man. “That ain't Grif! He's too buff and good-looking to be Grif! And isn't Tucker taller than that?"

“No, yes, I mean—this isn't my body, it's Moose's.” When Sarge continued to stare, Tucker said, “My character! In the video game! We’re in the video game!”

“Stop talkin’ nonsense!”

“With all due respect, sir, it might not be nonsense,” said Simmons, still looking supremely uncomfortable. He was looking at his boobs like they were going to attack him at any moment. “It must have been some sort of alien trap. When you pressed play, we got transported into the video game, and now we’re stuck in the bodies of our avatars.”

“Weird way to set a trap,” said Grif. “What are the odds some enemy soldier is gonna come along and play an old video game?”

“You nerds did,” said Tucker. He was examining his left wrist. “What’s with this tattoo?”

“Simmons!” Sarge barked. “What the hell are you wearin’? That ain’t proper jungle attire!”

“I-I didn’t choose this outfit, sir!” Simmons squawked, tugging at his shorts as if he could stretch them to cover the rest of his avatar’s thighs.

“And why did Donut choose such a useless character?” Sarge complained. He gestured to his body. “What skills could I possibly have as this disgusting blob of a man?”

“I think the character description referred to him as ‘The Curvy Genius,’” said Simmons.

“Yeah, it did,” said Tucker. “I remember cuz I wanted to play the hot girl. What a catfish!”

“Genius, huh? I can work with that.” Sarge looked mollified for all of five seconds before his shoulders slumped. “Oh, who am I kiddin’? I can’t live like this! This body is a disgrace to the uniform! Grif, I order you to switch with me!”

“I _can't_. And what uniform? We’re in a goddamn jungle!” said Grif.

“Yeah, speaking of which…how do we get out of here?” asked Simmons.

“That’s easy!” said Sarge. “We just have to follow the river! Eventually we’ll find some sorta indigenous settlement or township with folks that’ll help us out!”

“Uh, sir, that’s not how video games work,” said Simmons, but Sarge was already shoving Tucker aside and stomping towards the bank of the river, looking up and down it and squinting.

“Won’t be easy, what with all this nature clogging the banks,” he grumbled, “but I daresay, with enough grit and the liberal application of machetes, we can conquer Mother Nature!”

“Uh, Sarge?” Tucker said. He pointed to where the water had parted to reveal a bulbous snout and two beady eyes. “You might want to back away.”

“What?” Sarge followed Tucker’s finger to the creature slowly approaching him. “A hippo? Ha! You scared of a four-legged manatee, Blue? Look at it, too lazy to do more than drift in my direction.”

“Seriously, Sarge, hippos are fucking deadly. They’re very territorial, they kill around five hundred people a year despite being herbivores, and they can reach speeds of up to nineteen miles per hour on land—wait, how the fuck do I know this—”

“Yer just tryin' to scare me so I look like a coward!” Sarge said. “But I ain’t backin’ down. If this hippo wants a piece of me, it can damn well come and get—”

In a flash, the hippo launched itself out of the water and engulfed Sarge in its huge gaping maw. He barely had time to struggle as the hippo swallowed him in several gruesome chomps. Simmons shrieked, Tucker hollered, and Grif…might’ve screamed a little.

“Sarge!” cried Simmons. Tucker scrambled to put distance (and Grif) between himself and the river, but the hippo was already slinking back into the water.

“Fuck,” Grif breathed. “Do you think he’s actually dead? For real?”

There was a loud chime from the sky. All three of them looked up, knees bent, ready to sprint if they needed to. A moment later, they heard shouting, and an overweight middle-aged man in a pith helmet crashed through the trees and landed on his ass for the second time. He sat up, wide eyes staring into the middle distance.

“Did I just die…to a hippo?”

“Sarge! Oh thank god,” said Simmons.

Sarge lifted his hand to adjust his helmet, then frowned at his left wrist. “Why’s my tattoo different?” He stretched out his arm, displaying only two lines.

Simmons’ eyes went wide. “That must be our life count. If we die three times…”

There was a distant rumbling noise that shook the ground, accompanied by the same loud drumming they’d heard when the game sucked them in. “Hold that thought,” said Tucker, clutching the straps of his backpack. “I think we’ve got company.”

The rumbling grew louder. Trees began to crash down. Through the bushes a herd of charging hippos came into view.

“Shit shit shit shit _shit!_ ” Grif shouted, already turning to run. The bushes on the other side of the clearing suddenly burst apart to reveal a green-and-beige jeep with luggage piled on the rooftop. The jeep doors swung open with a hydraulic _pshew_. 

“Ah, Dr. Bravestone! Welcome to Jumanji!” said the driver, smiling as if there wasn’t a wave of angry hippos crashing towards them. “Don’t just stand there! In you go!”

He didn’t need to ask twice. “Shotgun!” Grif shouted.

“Shotgu—dammit!” Simmons said, a fraction of a second too late. Grif threw himself into the front seat, nearly slamming into the driver when he misjudged the amount of force needed to hoist his new body into the car. Everyone else piled into the back, with Simmons squished uncomfortably in the middle. With the hippos less than five feet away, the driver swung the jeep around and sped off through the jungle.

“Dr. Bravestone!” the driver repeated as they bounced along the uneven ground. “Famed archaeologist and international explorer. Known across the seven continents for your courageous exploits. I can’t tell you what an honor it is to finally meet you. I’ve been so anxious for your arrival!" He took his eyes off the road to give Grif a once-over. "And I’m not embarrassed to say you’re even more dashing in person.”

“Uh…” Grif looked over his shoulder for help, but Tucker looked about two minutes away from laughing and Simmons was busy trying to make himself smaller without his arms touching his boobs. Seriously, what was his deal with boobs?

“You should see him in real life!” Sarge said, leaning over to yell in the driver’s ear. “Nothin' but a fat, ugly slob!”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Grif muttered.

Sarge didn’t hear him, probably because the driver had started shouting back. “Professor Sheldon Oberon! Renowned cartographer and cryptographer! Welcome to Jumanji. Nigel Billingsley, at your service. I’ve been so anxious for your arrival!” Nigel turned his body halfway around, a worrying maneuver for someone who was _currently driving_ , and smiled at Sarge. The jeep hit a bump and bounced everyone against the roof. 

Simmons rubbed at his head. "Why are there no seatbelts in this thing?" 

Nigel looked over his shoulder briefly to offer another smile. “Ruby Roundhouse! Killer of men! Nigel Billingsley, at your service. I’ve been so anxious for your arrival!”

Tucker finally burst out laughing. _“Killer of men!_ What are you, the Black Widow? Are you gonna seduce our foes to death?”

“Shut up!” Simmons squawked.

“Franklin ‘Mouse’ Finbar!” said Nigel, twisting around once again to address Tucker. Grif was seconds away from lunging for the steering wheel when Nigel faced forward again. “Welcome to Jumanji! I knew you’d be here. Dr. Bravestone doesn’t go anywhere without his trusty sidekick. Ever since Dr. Bravestone rescued you from the clutches of a warlord in the jungles of Peru, you’ve never left his side.”

“Yeah, Tucker,” said Grif, “remember when I saved your ass in Peru?”

“Fuck off. I bet you don't even know where Peru is.”

“As you know, Jumanji is in grave danger,” Nigel continued. “We’re counting on the four of you to lift the curse!”

"Thanks for ruining the party banter, Nigel," Grif muttered.

“What curse?” Simmons asked dutifully.

Grif rolled his eyes. "Dude, could you be any more scripted?"

“It’s all detailed in the letter I sent you, Dr. Bravestone!" said Nigel. "Perhaps you should read it aloud!”

“Letter?” Grif went to check his pockets, only to find a letter already in his hand. “Okay, that wasn’t there before.”

“Perhaps you should read it aloud!” Nigel repeated.

“Definitely an NPC,” Grif muttered, unfolding the letter. Then he held it over his shoulder. “I don’t feel like reading. Someone else do it.”

“Oh my god, Grif,” said Simmons, "just read the letter! It's not that hard!”

“You read it then.”

“I can't read in the car, I'll get motion sick!" He sounded irritated, the sort of irritated that usually saw him turning a brilliant shade of red. But when Grif looked back, there was no flush on Simmons' face. Maybe Ruby Roundhouse wasn't the type of person who blushed easily. _She's a video game character,_ Grif thought. _Of course she can't blush._ Grif tried to ignore the feeling of disappointment that thought inspired.

“Perhaps you should read it alou—”

“Fucking _fine!”_ said Tucker. “Anything to make this guy shut up.” He snatched the letter from Grif and began to read: “Dr. Bravestone, I am writing to you regarding the desperate situation in Jumanji. We need your help at once…”

Suddenly, an overlay of Nigel’s voice began to play over Tucker’s, and the interior of the jeep disappeared. An image of rapidly passing foliage replaced it, coming to a stop as it panned around a group of explorers hacking their way through the jungle. It was like watching a movie, if watching a movie included a freaky out-of-body experience.

“What on God’s flat earth—”

“It’s a cutscene, Sarge,” Grif said. “Or a flashback. Both?” At least they could still talk to each other. Grif wasn’t sure if he even had a body at the moment.

_“My name is Nigel Billingsley, Jumanji field guide,_ ” said the narration. They watched as Nigel led an expedition of men on foot, in jeeps, and on motorcycles, passing ancient ruins and carved stone statues of animals. “ _I was hired by your former partner, now nemesis, Professor Russel van Pelt to lead a fateful expedition.”_ The camera focused on a sweaty man with dark hair, pouty lips, and dark brown eyes, staring in awe at something…and yep, now the camera was pointed at a vine-covered elephant statue, at a wide enough angle to show that this had been what caught Van Pelt's attention.

“ _You see, Professor van Pelt had come in search of the fabled Jaguar shrine, resting place of the sacred jewel of Jumanji. As you know better than anyone, the jewel was his great obsession. And after years of research, he believed that he had discovered its whereabouts.”_ They watched as Van Pelt slowly approached an enormous stone statue of a cyclopean jaguar, dripping with moss and vines. It towered over the surrounding jungle, even dwarfing some of the mountain peaks behind it.

The scene shifted to a shot of Van Pelt scaling the statue, grunting and grimacing as he hauled himself up a rope to its face. Breathing heavily, Van Pelt pulled aside vines to reveal a brilliant emerald bigger than a fist, positioned as if it were the jaguar’s eye. Its center glowed as if illuminated by some internal light.

_“Van Pelt told me he wanted to find the jewel in order to document it in his writings. What I did not know was that he intended to take the jewel for himself.”_ Van Pelt pulled a knife from his belt and began to hack at the edge of the jewel, prying it out of the socket in the middle of the jaguar’s head. He ripped it free, and green light burst forth, blinding him, sending out a shockwave of sickly mist. The bright sunny weather shifted instantly to dark gray storm clouds, lightning striking the mountains as Van Pelt, one eye now a milky green-tinged white, shouted to the world: “I found it! I found it!”

“ _Legend tells that the jaguar watches over Jumanji, and anyone who dares to blind him will be consumed by a dark power.”_ Now back on the ground, Van Pelt tilted his head, his jaw trembling. Hisses and whispers filled the air. The other members of the expedition began backing away as the ground writhed with snakes, rats, centipedes, and scorpions. Van Pelt himself seemed unperturbed, and didn't so much as flinch when a vulture landed on his arm, its enormous black wings beating the air inches from his head. _“Van Pelt assumed dominion over all Jumanji’s creatures, possessing them, controlling them, and a terrible curse befell this once placid land.”_

The scene shifted again. It was nighttime, and the mercenaries were back in camp. Van Pelt was staring into the jewel, cradling it in his hand as he rocked back and forth before the firelight, staring into its glowing core. _“I begged him to put it back, but once he had it in his grasp, he could never let it go. So I waited ‘til they slept that night…and I made my move.”_ There was Nigel, tip-toeing around the sleeping explorers, who for some reason were laying around the fire instead of in the tents they’d set up. Van Pelt was now sleeping with the jewel clutched to his chest. Carefully, Nigel pried it from Van Pelt’s fingers. Just as he was backing away, the vulture shrieked from its perch above a tent. Nigel sprinted away as the camp sprang to life. Van Pelt retrieved a pistol from his tent, but it was too late; his shots went wide as Nigel disappeared into the jungle. “Bring me that jewel!” he bellowed to the mercenaries, who had woken at the sound of gunfire. “And slaughter anyone who tries to stop you!”

With no warning, they were back in the jeep, which had come to a stop on a grassy hillside in the middle of a treeless field. There was jungle down the slope and the field, and jungle behind them, but the landscape had changed dramatically since they'd entered the cutscene. There were even mountains visible in the distance.

“Right then! Here you go!” Nigel held out a huge emerald-colored jewel to Grif, as if handing over a burger as they pulled away from a McDonald's drive-thru. When Grif didn’t immediately take it, Nigel shoved it into his hands. “With the invaluable help of your associates you must use your complementary skills to return the jewel to the jaguar’s eye and lift the curse. And I’m sure you’ll want to get started right away!”

Grif looked back at the others. They looked just as confused as he felt. “Uh, I think we've got a few questions—”

“Good luck! The fate of Jumanji is in your hands.” The doors swung open. “And remember, the goal for you I’ll recite in verse: return the jewel and lift the curse. If you wish to leave the game, you must save Jumanji and call out its name.” Then Nigel treated them to another enormous smile. “Off you go!”

Slowly, Tucker, Simmons, and Sarge climbed out. Grif lingered, wondering what sort of shitty NPC wasn't programmed with a response to something as basic as _I have a question._ Wasn't that standard dialogue tree shit?

“Hey, what do you think happens if we just stay in the car?” Grif asked. "You think he'll drive us to the end of the game?"

“He’s just gonna keep repeating the dialogue,” Simmons said. “C’mon, fatass.”

“Hey!” Sarge said, looking offended.

“Not you, sir.”

Grif let out a dramatic groan and made a big show of heaving himself out of the jeep. The doors shut behind him and Nigel drove off shouting the verse again, leaving them in the middle of nowhere with a jewel that some crazed Pied Piper would kill to possess.

“For the record,” Tucker said, “this one’s on Red Team.”


End file.
